Pain Slut

By: J.A. Rock

I was lying in dishabille on a steel exam table, my feet in a pair of stirrups, a hypodermic needle on a stand beside me—when my phone buzzed.

And kept buzzing.

My wrists were cuffed to the table, so I called to Bowser, who was sterilizing a scalpel over by the sink. “Can you hand me my phone?”

Bowser turned. Under his white lab coat, he wore a THE DOCTOR IS IN tee I’d given him years ago. “Now?”

“I’m expecting an important call.” Mind fogged. Wrists sore. Rubber tubing tied tight around my balls. How I thought I’d be able to carry on a phone conversation in this state, je ne savais pas.

Bowser crossed the room and retrieved the phone from my messenger bag. Glanced at the screen as he approached me. “Not a call. Texts.”

A moment of prodigious disappointment. Not the Beacon Center, then.

“Could you show me, please?” My voice was brusque, demanding. I felt slightly guilty about it.

He tried to swipe with a gloved finger, but the latex caught on the screen. He peeled off the glove with a snap that made my balls tighten. Then he swiped again and showed me the screen.

The texts were all from Kamen.

Dude were hangin at Dave’s to talk Hal’s b-day.

Hey do u still have my windbreaker?

Also, do you ever think about what if Barack Obama was clones?

I sighed and looked away, focusing on the jacaranda-blue wall of Bowser’s office. The sharps container mounted on it. I stared at the biohazard symbol. “You can put it back.” If my hands had been free, I’d have given a dismissive wave. To the manor born, my mother always said.

And she was one to talk.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Bowser take my phone back and set it on my bag. He returned to the counter and pulled on a new glove. Placed the scalpel on a plastic tray with other medical tools, then took the tray to a minifridge in the corner and popped it inside. Went back to the counter, where he began warming a bag of saline solution with a hot plate. “Not what you were expecting?” he asked.

I studied the wall again. I’d first set foot in this room seven years ago. I’d been so nervous that I’d focused on figuring out what color the wall was. Not royal blue. Not blue-violet. “Just my friends. Who know I’m busy this afternoon.”

I turned my gaze to the ceiling, trying to revert to the correct headspace. But now my mind was racing. The Beacon Center should have called by now. And Hal’s birthday—really? Why were we celebrating a dead man’s birthday?

“I liked that speech your friend Dave made a while back. At the roundtable.”

“Ah, yes.”

Bowser and I didn’t usually make small talk when we played together. It was still strange to think we’d once been fairly close. Back when I was twenty-one and endlessly enthused about kink. The past seven years had lent no small measure of tedium to deviance.

He brought the clear bag of saline solution over to the exam table and hooked it to an IV stand near my left shoulder. “I actually think it’s cool—the Subs Club. Even the review thing. I don’t know why so many people were upset about it.”

I tensed, trying not to recall that the last top who had brought up the Subs Club while I was tied down had held a knife to my face. And not in a fun way.

The Subs Club was an organization my friends Dave, Kamen, and Gould and I had started a couple of months ago. What had begun as an attempt to give submissives a private place to discuss safety concerns in the kink community had spiraled out of control when subs started posting reviews of individual doms on the Subs Club blog. In theory, this was advantageous—it let members call out “doms” who had abused or raped them in the past, and warn other members to stay away. And it let doms who were truly outstanding have their positive traits held up as paradigms.

We’d actually had a great deal of support. But our detractors had grown vocal, perhaps understandably so. In a way, the review blog had been a gross violation of privacy, despite the care we’d taken to only use doms’ scene names. Eventually we’d reached a compromise with the community leaders—we would remove the review portion of the blog and focus instead on leading community roundtable discussions once a month at Riddle, a local dungeon. So far, it was working out fairly well.

I pulled against the cuffs again, enjoying the feel. “Are you just saying that because you had such good reviews?”

“Did I?” Bowser shook the tubing to unkink it.

I almost rolled my eyes at his attempt to be casual. Despite the Subs Club blog having a log-in system that prevented nonmembers—i.e., doms—from viewing it, plenty of doms had seen or at least heard about their reviews. “You know you did. Everyone loves you.”

He grinned. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

Ah, but he was a filthy sweetheart. Dave always said he looked like a Viking, with his stout body, ginger beard, and wide nose. And it was Kamen who’d first pointed out that his laugh sounded exactly like Bowser’s in Super Mario 64. Now pretty much everyone in the scene called him Bowser, and he was a good sport about it.

He picked up the prepackaged IV needle from the stand. “You sure you want to go through with this? If you’re expecting an important call?”

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